


this is happening somewhere

by paradajka



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 22:05:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1724066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradajka/pseuds/paradajka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonus round fills from HSWC 2014. Pairings, prompts, and warnings listed in each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meulin<3Kurloz<>Mituna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Remember when Mituna and Meulin found out about Kurloz's betrayal?**
> 
> **Rating: T**
> 
> **Warnings: past mind control and issues related to having been controlled, abuse (related to canon mind control), amputation, religion**

It's a shock to be awake. Meulin has to take a minute to find her bearings, though her mind isn't as fuzzy as it usually is when this happens.

(She realizes later that's only due to how hard it probably would have been to relinquish control the usual way while dealing with the sudden pain of losing a leg, which leads her to thinking about how Kurloz would have kept her under for as long as he needed, which makes her all the kinds of emotional she wants to avoid.)

As she looks around the battlefield she remembers most of everything. The moment her decisions were no longer her own. The One True Messiah, a monster she still feels some allegiance to. His blast barely avoided. Kurloz's look of shock as it hit.

This wasn't part of his plans, she knows. She would know that even without what he's done to her thinkpan, since he'd always spoken (mimed, told) of how great this moment was to be.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Residual disappointment washes over her like nausea before she can convince herself she didn't want the monster to succeed.

*

A part of her wants to smooth this over, walk up to him with her usual smile as if nothing had happened, help him out because that's what best friends _do_.

But what best friends do not is use their psychic powers to convert their friends to their cult. Even if the cult's prophecies turn out to come true. And that's where the conflict lies. She always thought his beliefs were kind of silly, more dangerous-sounding than actually dangerous. And he could be so sweet, there was no way he _really_ wanted them all dead.

Except, as it turns out, he did. And so did she. 

She thinks again of going over, but by the time she's gotten the courage up to do it Mituna's already there.

He's shaky on his feet, towering over Kurloz's sitting form, almost falling more than once and needing to slam his hand down on the empty space where Kurloz's left leg should be to keep from losing his balance and tumbling down on top of him.

Meulin has no idea what he's saying. Since his accident his words come out in a way she imagines is jumbled, and the movement of his lips often makes little sense to her. 

She's fairly sure it's about the same things she wanted to say, though, based on Kurloz's responses alone. He's slow to answer, she notices, miming thoughts that are only half-formed and mis-signing simple concepts. It's more than just slowing things down for Mituna, he really seems to be in pain.

It's weird to see him hurt from this. Physical pain is thousands of years removed from her reality; she only has vague memories of how it must feel. When they first died he had assured her his mouth didn't hurt anymore, smiling wider than he'd ever been able to in life, and wider still when Meulin had proclaimed it a miracle. 

He loved when she used the language of his cult unprompted. 

Maybe he wouldn't have converted her by force if she had done it more often. Maybe she would have liked the teachings of his religion if she'd given it a chance.

(Maybe that's just what the corrupted part of her pan is telling her to make her less angry about all of this.)

*

When Mituna stomps off Meulin sees her chance. She needs to talk to him, needs him to tell her what he was thinking (even if she knows, knows every little thing he was working toward, or at least everything he deigned to tell her when she was under).

"I don't un _purr_ stand. I though we were _fur_ ends," is what comes out of her mouth first.

He mimes something about friendship, and not needing to worry, and how this is part of the Lord's plan, and she wants to believe him even though she can tell he doesn't really believe himself. His fingers jerk through the movements, as every twitch causes him further pain.

There's no blood, though. The space where his leg should be is just a space, as if he never had one from mid-thigh down. It makes sense in a way. After all, he's not alive. In fact, this makes him closer to double-death than any of them. 

"Friends don't do things like that. That's not how friendshipping works."

KITTYBITCH, he says in reply, only he doesn't, because she can't hear and his lips aren't moving. The name-sign (created just for her — _my sweet kitty-bitch_ he'd sign over and over as they clumsily tried to learn how to communicate) sounds ugly put into words. THIS WAS WHAT HAD TO BE DONE. EVERYTHING WAS TO GO AS PROPHECIZED AND—

"I DON'T CARE!" she yells, so loud her throat hurts. So loud he flinches. She remembers when he used to get weird around noises, how he used to pretend he didn't. She could always tell when he was scared, just like she can tell how sad he is about failing at this. "You could have at least _asked_ , _Purr_ zorz."

YOU WOULD NOT HAVE UNDERSTOOD THE IMPORTANCE.

"Maybe I would have! You can't know that!" Her hands fly in unmoderated rage (for the first time in longer than she can remember, she thinks later, remembering his aspect). She mimes out all of her thoughts about his betrayal, not paying attention to syntax or mime-choice, just wanting to get out all her feels. She has so many, too many, and she can't. She just can't anymore. 

She would always tell the others she'd lost her ability to can, but she had no idea how it would really feel.

Someone grabs her shoulder and she spins around to claw their face.

It's Mituna, helmetless and steadier on his feet than he's been in sweeps.

She stops short of doing any damage. 

He says something she can't quite make out, something about going or getting away, but his troubles getting the words out straight mean she doesn't understand. He must get it, though, because he mimes out NEED-TO-GO, almost with the kind of urgency a troll would use to indicate a pending trip to the gaper. 

Meulin stares back at him, puzzling it out, and he grabs her, tugs her away. That's when she sees the destruction around them, what he's trying to protect her from.

"What about Kurloz?" she asks, because she still cares about him, somewhere deep in her heart. She's upset, but she doesn't want him to be double-killed ( _they'll all be double-killed, and the true believers will remain surrounded by all that stardust_ ). Mituna looks back at his moirail, a strange expression on his face as he reaches out with shaky, sparky psionics and pushes him somewhere safer.

As they run Meulin almost thinks she can hear the explosions and shouting of the nearby battle.


	2. Gamzee<>Karkat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Remember when Gamzee's horns got in the way of putting his head in Karkat's lap?**
> 
> **Rating: M**
> 
> **Warnings: blood, violence & gore (puncturing skin), mentions of death, mentions of drug use, mental health issues, humanstuck (of the 'used to be trolls' variety)**

It's funny how things get to be changing. Once was a time you couldn't fit your head on your best friend's lap like this without stabbing him clean through his foodsacs so as his blood and bile would run down and into your hair and over your face, pooling in the pits of your scars. Was a time that red was unique to him only, with no other motherfuckers having it run through their veins.

Come pile time, you'd always be putting your head across him turnways, looking up at the side of his face as he got his complain on for all what was left of your friends on the meteor. You never were sure what even you could be doing for him outside of listening as best you could, and when everything got busy it was harder and harder to even be doing that.

You got time aplenty to listen now, but he ain't got much to say so most days you end up watching his exposed throat and thinking if you were still trolls he would never be sitting in a position so vulnerable. If you still had your claws and teeth, your _horns_ , he wouldn't last but two seconds sitting here with his hands on your chest all soft-like, not even enough pressure to try holding you down. But you're all human now, nothing sharp about you, so he's not even scared as he should be. 

Silence ain't something you have your like on for at all. Can't be letting your pan wander too much or it goes all up to places you don't want any part of. Your prayers are all for the pan-rotting feeling of sopor now, for something to take away what thoughts you have as are now all your own. No one's up inside you but yourself and you're not much fond of what he's being.

You get stuck on thinking about your horns and about your stabs and before you're even deciding to you're pressing your head up and against Karkat's thorax, such a way that if you were troll it'd puncture his breathsacs, and all the air would come out and he'd gasp and gasp and collapse right over you. 

" _Gamzee_ ," he says, and that ain't rightly your name anymore as much as it's a warning, like "stop" or "don't". That's the biggest joke of all, isn't it? You're not a troll, you're not even a human, really. You're not a weapon either, just a warning of something what might be dangerous if you leave it alone long enough.

You laugh so much it starts your oculars leaking that strange clear fluid and Karkat gets to pushing you back down into his lap and papping at you in some way that was like to be soothing if everything weren't so _wrong_.


	3. Kurloz<3<Cronus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Remember when Kurloz first talked Cronus down from his magic religion by presenting him with the full set of Harry Potter books, thus shattering him for sweeps to come?**
> 
> **Rating: T**
> 
> **Warnings: mind control, religion**

His allegiance to this false prophet both disgusts and annoys you. How he could possibly think the makings of a wiggler's fairytale was truth is astounding, especially when the miracle of your Lord's coming is nearly here. 

What makes it worse is his role within this pointless game you have all been drawn into. His Hope might be what brings your faithless friends to succeed where they should not. His status as a Bard makes him as unpredictable as the Holy Capriciousness Himself. 

You have read the literature well, and know within yourself that it is your duty to make sure things happen as they ought. And to do that you need to do your due diligence and research that which keeps him believing in such fictions.

Troll Harry Potter is not something you have much interest in, the story of a culled lowblood who discovers magic and takes out a powerful magician, but you read all seven books cover to cover, and emerge confident that Cronus can be bested by the words contained within.

You approach him feigning innocence and gift him the books that will be his undoing, watch as he pores over them, night after night, and how he becomes more and more listless. Hopeless. Discovering all of his truths have been nothing but lies.

"I... I don't understand," he says. "This vwas real. I vwas supposed to defeat him. The angels said—"

THERE IS BUT ONE ANGEL, ONE WHICH HAS NO NEED FOR YOUR BLASPHEMOUS NATTERING.

"Vwhat the hell, Kurloz? I thought you vwere mute."

You tap the thread that binds your lips as they quirk into a smile. SPEECH IS UNNECESSARY TO MAKE A POINT, HEATHEN. THOSE WHO SPIN TOO MANY UNTRUTHS WITH THEIR WORDS OFTEN LOSE SIGHT OF THIS.

"So you did this on purpose, then? Destroyed my beliefs because they conflict with your fakey religion?" He pauses. You wait for signs of anger but can sense no abnormal rage within him. "I'm kinda flattered you'd do all that for me. I'vwe been sorta lonely since Beforus was destroyed, actually. Something pitch could be exactly vwhat I need." He smiles, pats you on the shoulder. "Thanks, chief."

You are taken aback by his ability to twist the situation into something good. His power as Bard is beyond what you had assumed. His Hope is inviting the destruction of your careful plan through his insistance that your actions are a black overture. 

This cannot be.

Your 'voodoos have many purposes, one of which is to cloud the minds of your peers. You can make recent discussions so warped that they believe them not to have taken place at all. It is the only way to keep your failure here secret. 

Cronus forgets his black feelings toward you altogether while his interest in magic wanes for reasons he will never be able to articulate. 

It is not exactly as you had intended, but it will have to be enough.


	4. Roxy<3Latula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Remember the time when Latula challenged Roxy to Blades of Steel on the NES, and in the middle of a tied game, the power went out, AND THEN Latula was intent on finding something else to challenge Roxy on without electricity? And then that thing turned into an actual hockey game at Roxy's home while using household items to serve as equipment?**
> 
> **Rating: T**
> 
> **Warnings: None!**

"C' _mon_ , Roxter, it'll be fun!" Latula says, and because Roxy is basically the opposite of a wet blanket, she agrees. 

In one of the bedrooms with a flashlight between her teeth, gathering up as many pillows as she can for her turn at goalie because they've got hells of tuna cans for pucks and she knows that shit's gonna hurt, she realizes the house has gotten way too quiet. Trolls can be really fucking quiet when they want to be, but she can't really think of a reason for Latula to want to avoid banging shit around.

"'Tules?" she asks into the void (which is really just the empty hallway, but void sounds that much more dramatic). She hears nothing in return.

There are no signs of life until she gets back to the kitchen, which has a crude net made out of a card table lain on its side, water bottle balanced precariously on the top. Candles line the counters, a cute but dangerous as fuck touch. 

There's still no sign of Latula.

"Hey 'Tules, is this supposed to be a hockey game or a horror movie?"

No answer until, out of nowhere, she hears the words. "Blades of Steel."

When Latula only uses her lower voicebox (or whatever trolls even call them) she sounds almost like the game. She makes her entrance in the flickering candlelight, moving her arms and legs to mimic skating across the linoleum floor. 

And, shit, she went all-out with this. Oversized sweater for a jersey (with bonus giant cat head in the centre acting as a logo), oven mitts for gloves, cracker boxes around her shins for padding. She's even got a stick. Like, a legit hockey stick. Roxy has no idea how she managed that.

"You ready, babez?" she asks.

"Hellz yeah," Roxy replies. 

The set-up is hella crude, with Roxy finally dressed as something resembling a goalie after more pillows are tied around her legs, arms, and torso than she should probably be able to move wearing. They rigged a mask out of a salad strainer and a mixing bowl and she is 99% sure that it won't prevent injuries, but whatever. They're gonna do this.

Instead of tuna cans Latula's found one of those round cakes of soap and she jogs at the net with some half-assed stickhandling and weak shots, yelling 'penalty shot!' in a way that makes it completely clear to Roxy that she doesn't know why they get handed out even though there were at least two in their previous game.

Before the soap crumbles Roxy has kept all but three shots out of her net. And without a stick of her own too. 

"Three - nothing!" Latula says, dropping her stick and doing the cutest fistpump. "Time to switch."

"Hmmm, I think instead we should..." Roxy lowers her voice as much as she can and yells out, "fight!", tackling Latula to the ground.

Of course, Latula gets the upper hand pretty easily due to hear alien strength and not having pillows strapped to her extremities.

"Goalies don't fight," she says all matter of fact as she straddles Roxy's waist.

"Gonna have to youtube that to see how wrong you are," Roxy tells her. 

"Power's not back yet; I've got time for a victory lap first." She bends down to give Roxy a quick kiss and runs off to celebrate.


	5. Gamzee & Caliborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Remember how Caliborn hold Gamzee's bloodpusher in his hands and then stepped on it and as was to be expected Gamzee didn't die?**
> 
> **Rating: M**
> 
> **Warnings: abuse (physical), blood, graphic depictions of violence/gore**

The clown's squishy innards pulse between Caliborn's fingers. The organ is off-purple and slimy, like a candy left alone too long and gone bad. It smells like it's rotten too, fills the air with the sick tang of blood. The purple liquid is more disgusting than his own blood in both colour and scent, that is an immutable fact. 

When he squishes the heart the clown lets out a groan, the only sound he's made since Caliborn cracked his chest with the crowbar. It was an accident, but the best things always are. He meant to hit him in the head but his chest just got in the way, the crooked end of the bar making it inside and scooping out his heart like a spoonful of stardust.

The clown smiles his gross smile up at him, still missing teeth from the last time he was hit in the face. His eyes keep unfocusing and focusing again, but he doesn't break eye contact when Caliborn deigns to look over. His mouth opens and closes like a dying sea-creature. When he breathes Caliborn can see his breathing sacs expand and contract and hear them make wet, squishy sounds that aren't too different from the sounds that happen when he squeezes the heart hard.

It's no use wishing the clown would die when he seems to survive despite himself and despite Caliborn's best efforts. 

He tires easily of his stupid painted companion and his stupid interest in following him everywhere and his stupid inability to die. The heart is making his hand slimy and the blood's getting under his clawtips and he just wants to be rid of it for good.

When he throws it to the ground it just sits in the dirt, still beating. Caliborn lifts his fake leg and stamps down, glad he can't feel the way it squishes beneath his foot. He's less glad about the mess it makes on the metal, though, or how wiping it on the dirt just covers his foot in bloody purple-brown dirt.

There's no water around either, which means he's going to have to leave it like that. In annoyance, he kicks the organ, watches it skid unsatisfyingly across the dirt. 

The clown makes no noise through all of this, and the fresh blood trickling from his lips and down his chin would tell Caliborn why if he cared at all. He doesn't.

The heart continues to beat as he stomps away.


	6. Kurloz<3<Gamzee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: _Gretchenfrage_ , German. literally "Gretchen's Question". The “Gretchenfrage” is a question asked to reveal someone’s true intentions so as to avoid being tricked. (Gretchen asked Dr. Faust if he believed in god)**
> 
> **Rating: T**
> 
> **Warnings: mind control, mentions of canon relationships, mentions of abuse/violence/death, religion**

OUR LORD INTENDS US TO BE WILLING TO SACRIFICE ANYTHING HE DEEMS NECESSARY, your dancestor booms, 'voodoos echoing through your mind like ghosts. ARE YOU AS ABLE AS THE SCRIPTURES FORETOLD?

You look back at him, his stitched-up mouth quirking in question. You want to tell him to shut it; you can be whatever your Lords want you to be, whatever they tell you, and you don't need his bony ass asking. 

"'Course I am. What does it motherfucking look like?" you say all with a snap of anger you don't feel bad about not holding back. You're dressed head to toe in the fabric of someone who died and got back godtier, when you can't seem to die at all, and you know the first angel is all gonna test that. 

He probably knows too, probably revels in seeing his fellow believers hurting for the cause.

Sometimes you look at what's his. His girl, who can't hear what you're saying when she turns away, and his boy with the pan busted in ways worse than yours, both swearing faith up and down with eyes as bright purple as what runs out your veins and you think, you don't want this for Karkat. You're all the more content to be pushing him away so he can live out his last days as himself. After that he'll be gone, and maybe if shit goes the way it ought you'll be gone too and not have to think up reasons to avoid him when you're up at the meteor much longer.

Terezi is another problem altogether. You can't stay away even when you don't much care for properly hating her. Sometimes you think you've never had the hate any way proper, or at least not since you met Kurloz and his smug way of not-talking like he knows all the answers. Sometimes you want to just bare your teeth and bite, rip the flesh from his bones until he's the skeleton he wants to be. 

He just keeps on smiling back at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking, and maybe he does. He's had all that time reading his scriptures what he name-drops all the mother fucking time without letting you see even one, even though the stories he tells are all about you and what things you did.

You think again about biting him but instead you just get to scowling back, leaving before he gets the chance to tell at you any of the other things you already know. You're as loyal to this angel as the other, the fact you ain't gonna mind much getting shot-up will show that to Kurloz as much as any words.


	7. Equius<3Gamzee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Carnival/sideshow AU -- sawdust, greasepaint, the close quarters of a traveling caravan. what goes on when there isn't an audience to perform for.**
> 
> **Rating: T**
> 
> **Warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of violence, blood, burns, sweat**

Equius always has to help Gamzee back to his tent after shows. He heals fast, but not fast enough that he can walk back without falling. He is light and pliant from the spirits he drank beforehand, and fits against Equius' side without much prompting. 

The tent isn't far, as it's easier to keep him as close to the stage as possible. 

Once they're in Equius lights the lamp and turns to survey just how bad it is this time.

Gamzee is shirtless, bloody. There is a burn up the side of his right forearm from a large branding iron. The first act, a show of how he'll heal over the course of the night. The crowd always gasps as they smell the cooking flesh, but are almost too distracted by everything that comes after to really pay attention to the way it knits back together over the hour.

Equius' hand accidentally brushes the wound on his way out of the tent and Gamzee flinches. 

"Does it... hurt?" he asks, unsure of how much pain Gamzee is even capable of feeling. He screams like it hurts, Equius knows, but they all put on an act when they're in front of the crowd. 

"It's fine. Itches." He rubs at the damaged skin, some of which sloughs off onto the floor. Equius resists the urge to grab a broom and clean up after his sloppiness.

Gamzee, meanwhile, flops onto the beanbag chair.

It always amazes Equius how fast he heals. In a few hours the burns will be gone, the holes from the stabs will close up, and his skin will be the same unblemished brown it was this morning.

There is silence, and then.

"C'mere," Gamzee drawls, waving him over with his good arm.

"I don't think that is wise." Equius starts to sweat and looks frantically for a towel or cloth. Something unimportant. He should leave. 

"What if I was all ordering you to do it?" It's not malicious, more curious.

"I..."

"I don't wanna be costing you your free will, bro. Just thought maybe you'd be all up for distracting me."

"...I'll hurt you."

"Can't hurt me with any permanence." He smiles. It looks wider than it really is due to the makeup smeared over his face. 

"You should take off your makeup. It's filthy." There's dried blood on his forehead from where they hit him with a chair. He's a mess.

He brings over a bucket of water and a rag, forces himself to be gentle as he wipe his face. It's more work than most realize, keeping himself from crushing his delicate bones. He sweats at a near-constant rate. It drips over his face, over his shirt, on to Gamzee.

"Doesn't it make you angry that they would treat someone of your... pedigree... this way?" It's not his place to ask, but he has always wondered. _Makara_ is still a powerful name if only he would use it in the way he should. Equius feels he would in Gamzee's place, but he often feels the things Gamzee should be.

Gamzee laughs hollowly. "Doesn't matter too much."

He leans up and presses a sloppy kiss to Equius' forehead. His entire face feels wet, between the spit and the sweat that was already covering him and threatening to multiply with this. He isn't sure how to react. 

"I..."

"You don't have to do anything. Just wanted to be showing at my appreciation for what you've been doing for a motherfucker."


	8. Mituna<3Latula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Humanstuck AU based on Death Cab For Cutie's What Sarah Said featured around the young couple's relationship when Latula gets into a horrible accident.**
> 
> **Rating: T**
> 
> **Warnings: hospitalization, religion, mentions of brain injury issues, the fic itself turned out to be mostly Kur <>Tuna**

You can't sit still you can't you _can't_ —

You can't do this. You don't know how anyone in this room can do this. You don't know how Latula—

Four years ago it was her sitting here and you in there and you have no idea how she did it.

It's your fault, you should have warned her, you shouldn't have let her try that jump you shouldn't—

A hand clamps down on your shoulder and you jump, you swear, you knock someone's coffee on the floor and _oh_. It's just Kurloz.

OKAY? he signs, after pausing to frown at the puddle staining his purple converse.

"What do you think, pissfucker?"

He shrugs. MAKING SURE YOU'RE NOT HAVING A HEART ATTACK OVER BEING TOUCHED. COFFEE WAS YOURS, MOTHERFUCKER. WANT MORE? 

You don't think you're going to sleep until she's awake (or... No. She's going to wake up, unless she isn't and then...). "I... Shit. No." You're shaking all over, and as much as you're used the spasms by now, you feel so fucking jittery on top of that that you know coffee's just gonna make sitting impossible and you have to stay here. You have to. She's done it for you, she deserves—

Kurloz brushes your hair back out of your eyes, looks straight at you. IT'S GONNA BE OKAY, TUNA, he signs, rocking back on his heels. You don't know when he went from standing to crouching. You can't believe he's just staying there in the puddle and not cleaning the fuck out of everything. He hates messes, hates it when shit's out of his control. (So do you, honestly, but not as much as him.) BEEN PRAYING. GOTTA THINK HE'S LISTENING DOWN ON THAT. HE'LL MAKE IT RIGHT. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, extracts a few twenties and hands them over. Fucker is always loaded.

YOU PROBABLY GOTTA EAT LATER OR SOMETHING. He shrugs. IF YOU NEED ME, TEXT. SHE'LL BE GLAD KNOWING YOU WERE HERE," he adds, and as he leaves you think about when it was _him_ in there, half-dead and hooked up to machines. He doesn't talk about it (doesn't _talk_ , period, not anymore), and that's probably as close as he's ever gotten to admitting he was grateful. Just took your girlfriend almost dying.

You have spent too much fucking time in the ICU, on both sides; it's not fucking fair. 

You're still too shaky to sit still, so you get up. Almost slip in the coffee which makes you think how upset Kurloz must really be over this to forget about it. Forget about him as soon as you get to 'Tula's room. 

You don't have to go in to get a good look at her since the walls are all windows. You press your hand to the glass, leaving a sweaty handprint, as you watch her chest rise and fall to the rhythm of the ventilator. 

_"It's gonna be fine, babez," she said. "I've done this jump like a million times; there's nothing to worry about."_

_You worried anyway, but your bad feelings were never going to stop her._


	9. Mituna<>Kurloz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: AU where Mituna was the only one there when Kurloz had his 'accident'.**
> 
> **Rating: T**
> 
> **Warnings: violence (brain-destroying with psionics, specifically), aftermath of said violence, vomit, religion, unhealthy moirallegiance**

There's danger coming and no one _listens_.

Kurloz, by all rights, should be the best listener of them all. You know he hears what you're saying (none of you were sure of that for awhile after the accident because he wouldn't fucking let on. Aranea's the one who figured out that his hearing wasn't damaged too badly and he's avoided her ever since) but he does nothing, just stands by and lets things happen.

There's a reason for that, you're finding out.

MITUNA. PALEST BROTHER MINE. IT IS YOU WHO DOES NOT UNDERSTAND THE COMPLEXITY OF THIS. YOU WHO KEEPS TRYING TO PREVENT WHAT CANNOT BE PREVENTED, NOT IF THE GREAT LORD, THE ANGEL OF DOUBLE DEATH HIMSELF IS TO RISE. He paces in front of you, moving his hands in fluid gestures even though no words come out of his sealed lips. 

If you were anyone else you'd think this was way too unbelievable to be true. All these bad feelings about danger and it's your best friend, your _moirail_ , who's helping to cause it all.

"You're full of shit, KL. Your angel isn't coming; you're just going to hurt your friends."

FRIENDS. You think he would laugh if he could. ALL THOSE HERETICAL MOTHER FUCKERS EXPECT ME TO SAVE THEM WHEN THEY WON'T ATTEMPT TO SAVE THEMSELVES? YOU WOULD DARE TELL ME THAT I SHOULD ATTEMPT TO STOP WHAT HAS ALREADY BEEN PUT IN MOTION FOR ELEVEN SOULS THAT WOULD MOCK THE COMING OF THE LORD?

He's getting angry. You can feel it reaching out toward you, pushing at your mind in an attempt to hurt. 

You know exactly what's supposed to happen now. He's gonna use his 'voodoos to fry your 'pan, fuck you up enough you'll be his puppet forever.

But that's not what you're going to let happen. You've crunched the numbers on frying his out first, and you could do it. Not that you want to, but. This is what moirails do, right? He's a danger to himself, a danger to others, and you can't let him continue.

You were always a shit moirail, you think to yourself as you unleash your psionics. He thinks you're noble enough to let him get away unscathed and, well. You're not. You can't. 

It doesn't take long for your psionics to take effect, and you pull them away as soon as you can, lower him to the ground so he doesn't fall. He'd probably break a bone, the scrawny bulgelicker. 

He starts to heave and you send out a quick zap to break the stitches before he completely loses his lunch.

When he's finished you float him somewhere less gross and get a good look at what you've done. His eyes aren't as blank as you worried they'd be, but they're sort of glazy.

"KL?" You don't know if you'll even get a response. Fuck, maybe he's deaf for real this time.

"Uh," is what croaks it's way out of his parted lips. He frowns.

"That bad, huh?" Yeah, if he's making noise he's fucked, which means you're fucked.

Kurloz makes an attempt at psychic assault, or at least that what it's probably meant to be. All that hits you is gibberish.

"Shit," you run your hands through your hair, scrub at your scalp like that's gonna stop the pan-ache that's coming on fast. "Look, you were gonna— You _know_ what you were gonna do and I couldn't let you—" It's not an apology, not even close, but how do you even say 'sorry I'm not sorry I wrecked your pan when I tried to stop you from causing the end of the world'? You don't. You guess there's some solace to be had in the fact that he can't _tell_ anyone what you've done, not that he really could without revealing his secret plans. 

Kurloz twitches his fingers like he wants to say something that way, but he can't. You're not sure how much of his pan you destroyed but speech seems like it's not working right for sure. There's something funny about how _that's_ what's gone, considering how stubborn he's been about not speaking all these sweeps. 

You reach out to grab his hand. There's really nothing else you can do.


End file.
